Steam rises from the kettle, fogging the window that looks out on the endless green surrounding our cottage.
“Tea selection!” Sienna drops a wooden box onto the kitchen counter, making me jump. “We’ve got options today, courtesy of Cameron’s last supply run and finding the house of a tea fanatic.” She flips open the lid, gesturing like a game show host unveiling the grand prize. “We have English Breakfast for basic bitches, Earl Grey for fancy bitches, some weird herbal shit that smells like feet…”
I lean against the counter. “Impressive haul.”
“Wait, I’m not done with the presentation.” Her fingers dance over the tea bags. “Peppermint for upset tummies, chamomile for anxiety, which, let’s be honest, we all fucking need, and…” She picks a yellow packet, then freezes mid-motion. “Um, lemon ginger.”
Something warm and sharp pierces my chest. “That was Amelia’s favorite.”
Sienna’s hand hovers mid-air, uncertain.
“I used to make it for her after treatments.” Usually, mentions of Amelia turn me mute, not chatty. “Said the ginger settled her nausea.”
Sienna’s hand finds mine, her fingers squeezing gently. “You want it?”
“Chamomile. Please.”
Three months of nightmares that won’t quit. Jumping at shadows. Expecting wolf zombies behind every tree. Anxiety sounds about right.
She prepares our mugs, dunking the tea bags in steaming water. “You think Ramirez found someplace good? With Maya and Leo?”
I shrug. “Somewhere with high walls and hundreds of escape routes, knowing him.”
“I miss the little shit.” She blows across her mug. “Leo, I mean. Not Ramirez. Though I guess he was alright too.”
“Ramirez knew what he was doing.” I take the mug she offers, wrapping my hands around its warmth.
“No use wondering about what can’t be changed.” Rosa’s voice comes from the doorway, startling us both. She shuffles into the kitchen in fuzzy slippers, her silver hair twisted in a bun. “He wanted his own path.”
“Morning,” Sienna says.
“Is Arianna up yet?” Rosa accepts a mug from Sienna without being offered. “She mentioned wanting to cut her hair, and I told her it was a terrible idea. Her face shape won’t suit it short.”
I hide a smile behind my mug. Rosa pretends to be annoyed, but I’ve caught her teaching Arianna to make empanadas three times now. “I don’t think they’re up yet.”
“Lazy.” Rosa huffs, stirring honey into her tea. “In my day, we were up at dawn.”
The back door swings open, bringing a gust of cold and damp air into our cozy warmth. Cameron steps in, dripping water onto the hardwood floor before shedding his coat and walking over to us.
“Morning, beautiful.” He bends to kiss Sienna, who squirms away.
“Ew, no.” But she’s laughing, the protest halfhearted at best. “You’re soaked.”
I glance past him. “Where’s your brother?”
“Right behind me, last I?—”
And there he is, Julien, rain-slicked and handsome as always. His t-shirt clings to the contours of his chest, water dripping from his hair. Our eyes lock, and that familiar sensation tightens in my stomach.
Three months, and it still happens every time.
He shuts the door, crosses to me in three long strides, and plants a quick kiss on my lips, then—without warning—hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey!” I grab fistfuls of his wet shirt as blood rushes to my head. “What are you doing?”
His hand anchors firmly on the back of my thigh as he heads toward the balcony.
“Julien! Put me down!” I try to sound stern, but laughter bubbles up. “I’m in my pajamas!”
